A Taste Like Cotton Candy
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: Happy and Juice are at a cheap hotel. The sheets are thin, don't act well as an anchor, and Juice tastes like Happy imagines cotton candy would taste, if there was an adult version of the sugary treat. (smut; failed attempt at fluff; no romance, but slash)


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.

**A/N:** Written for the cotton candy bingo square - taste - and because someone mentioned wanting to read Juice and Happy fluff. This is not fluff. Sigh. It's smut. Obviously, I need to go back to the drawing board and see if I can manage to scrounge up some fluff from somewhere, for these two.

* * *

Juice tastes like liquor, cigarettes and something sickly sweet. Just the way that Happy had imagined he'd taste, whenever he let his mind go there, which wasn't often. Once in a blue moon, maybe less often than that.

Juice tastes the way that cotton candy, if they made an adult version of the confectionery - Jack Daniels, menthols and pure, unadulterated sugar - would taste.

Addicting.

Melts in the mouth.

Juice's skin, sweat-slick, slippery, makes for a nice accompaniment - the salt on the rim of a margarita glass that compliments the overly sugary drink - to the saccharine-sweet of his mouth.

Makes Happy's mouth water, and he seeks refuge in Juice's mouth. The man's tongue is a veritable smorgasbord of flavors, and Happy is more than content to partake of it.

They both part, reluctantly, for air, and Happy's mouth follows after Juice's, teeth snaring the man's lip, tugging lightly. No rough play tonight. Juice already has enough bruises on his body courtesy of a bar fight.

Juice indulges Happy for a few seconds, pulls away and then he smiles, his teeth too white in the almost darkness of the cheap hotel room; if it wasn't raining, they'd be camped out on their bedrolls, sleeping beneath the stars. This wouldn't be happening.

Juice shoves Happy's legs apart, pushes at Happy's knees, ducks his head, and Happy missed the man's mouth. Misses the tang. But then the heat, the wetness of Juice's mouth is applied elsewhere, and...

"Fuck."

Happy's toes curl, and his vision starts to go gray around the edges, and he wishes that he had something to hold onto, other than the crappy motel sheets, when Juice swallows him.

Happy wonders, briefly, what he tastes like. If Juice likens him to one of the man's own favorite foods - Lucky Charms cereal, or maybe a nice, thick burrito - if the very talented young man, fluent in, apparently, many tongues, is thinking of anything other than what he's doing to Happy right now. How, with his mouth, and his tongue, and his fingers, he reduces Happy to a jabbering fool.

Happy digs his toes into the mattress, tries not to think of how many people have fucked, sucked dick, or died in this very same hotel room; in this bed. Tries not to think of how many dicks Juice has had in his mouth. Because he wants this to be all for him, wants to pretend that Juice doesn't know what he's doing, that this is his first time, that his mouth is on a virginal mission. That Happy's dick is the first that Juice has ever had the pleasure of tasting.

And there's a part of Happy, the part that doesn't mind hurting others, that wants Juice to have been a prostitute in his life before the Sons. To have tasted dozens, hundreds of dicks, only to, afterwards, declare that Happy's dick is the best that he's ever had the pleasure of sucking, that he'll be content to suck Happy's dick for the rest of his life, because, fuck, Juice is good.

Juice is good, and Happy can't help the way that his hips move. Can't get a good enough hold on the sheets. Can't stop the room from spinning, or prevent himself from making the grossly indecent sounds that are coming from his mouth. Sounds that he's never made before. Sounds that he's a little embarrassed to be making now, but fuck all if he really cares about it, because his dick has never been anywhere that's quite like Juice's mouth.

The man's tongue is a paintbrush in the hand of a masterful artist, using strong, bold strokes to bring the picture on the canvas to life. Happy's knees fall to the side, and there are obscene, wet slurping sounds coming from Juice. Sounds that cause Happy's stomach to tie itself into a knot, and he wishes that Juice had some hair that he could hold onto, that he could use for leverage, because the sheets aren't enough. Not by a long shot, and his fingers scrabble to find purchase amongst them.

Happy arches his back, bites his lip, and copper spills out over his tongue. Juice is lapping at him, sucking and licking, and all that Happy can think about is finding a state fair, somewhere, anywhere, and buying some cotton candy. Maybe buying all of the cotton candy, and fucking Juice on the double Ferris wheel, or beneath the back flap of one of the tents, far away from the crowds.

"Guh...ungh...fu...fu...fu-u-u-u-ccccccckkkkkk!"

Happy comes, shoots into Juice's mouth, and fuck, fuck, fuck. Juice laps at it, swallows, drinks him dry. And then Juice moves up for a kiss, practically slithering up Happy's spent body like a snake. Sweat slicking him like oil.

And Happy, on Juice, tastes like cheap booze, cigarettes, and something that reminds him of cinnamon. It's a heady, dizzying combination of flavors.

"Fuck, Juice," Happy says, when his mouth's been relinquished, and is once more his own.

"I thought that's what we just did." Juice's voice is teasing, almost lazy, and Happy knows that Juice's mouth has been around the block more than once. Doesn't mind, so long as Juice's mouth stops, stays right here for the time being.


End file.
